


more landmarks

by madanach



Series: empire building [2]
Category: K-pop, Winner (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, BURBERRY!, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Finger Sucking, M/M, Morning Sex, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 14:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16020014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madanach/pseuds/madanach
Summary: “Do you wanna have sex tomorrow morning?” Minho asks.“Sure,” Hoon says, dropping his head into the crook of his arm.“I’m really tired,” Minho says by way of explanation, “but I also want to fuck in this fancy hotel room.”





	more landmarks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shellfishDimes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellfishDimes/gifts).



> [redacted] 07/18/2018  
> when will you write me minhoon  
> [redacted] 07/25/2018  
> finish the fic I need minhoon  
> [redacted] 07/29/2018  
> pushes my minhoon agenda  
> [redacted] 07/29/2018  
> MINHOON  
> [redacted] 08/06/2018  
> about the minhoon  
> [redacted] 08/09/2018  
> the minhoon  
> [redacted] 08/11/2018  
> start with minhoon  
> [redacted] 08/11/2018  
> minhoon
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU BIG BABY

It’s still early when they get to the hotel. Their schedule for the day had felt packed, what with a ten-hour flight that was already halfway through the day, a moderately acceptable lunch, almost an hour in traffic and a quick, confusing meeting with people that Hoon’s sure are related, somehow, to this Burberry thing. He’s not paying much attention. He doesn’t pay much attention to anything, really, until their cab makes way for a hotel lobby which makes way for a room, finally, their managers leaving them to fight the key card as they go do manager things.

Minho’s looked placidly lost most of the day, but when Hoon gets the door open he slips in first, pushing his luggage backwards in front of him. He almost trips when he lets it fall to the ground. Hoon turns on the light. “London,” he says, spreading an arm out in front of him.

“Oh, what?” says Minho.

The room’s weird. It’s nice like the rest of the hotel, but not any bigger than most double rooms. The beds look luxurious, but there doesn’t seem to be enough space to warrant two of them. There’s a pop-up closet in the corner blocking half of the window.

“Posh,” Minho says in English. He’s trying to do some sort of accent—it comes out garbled. “Those must be the clothes.”

“I guess,” Hoon says. Minho steps over his suitcase and Hoon picks it up, leans it against the wall. He runs his finger over the top of the beautiful dresser that’s taking up half the room. It feels odd and plasticky. “Where’s the TV?”

Minho shrugs, but he’s got his head stuck in the pop-up closet, so Hoon just sees it jump a little. “This stuff is way better than what we got in Seoul. Look at this.” He emerges with a double-breasted military coat, bright red.

“Dibs,” Hoon says.

“Fuck off,” says Minho cheerfully. Hoon checks his phone. It’s still early, comparatively, but it’s been a long day. He needs a charger. He sees an outlet peeking out from the wall behind the closet, but Minho seems to be in the zone. It takes a full minute for him to find another, wedged all the way behind the bed in the corner. While he’s flopped over the bed trying to plug it in something lands on his ass.

“Ow,” Hoon mumbles, his face smashed into the mattress. The cord has to bend too sharply—it’s gonna fray. His chargers last about a month these days.

“Try it on,” comes Minho’s voice.

Hoon drags himself up on his elbows, leaving his phone on the pillow, wondering why hotel rooms don’t have six outlets on every wall. It’s 2017. “What have you given me,” he says, pulling the pile of heavy fabric into his lap.

“I have no idea,” Minho says. He’s speaking through a plaid scarf wrapped too thickly around his neck. He looks like a video game character.

“Are these arm holes?”

“I ask that every day,” says Minho. Hoon pulls the unidentified article of clothing over his head and immediately gets stuck, wriggles until Apocalypse Scarf Minho takes pity on him and helps him. It turns out to be a coat of some sort.

Hoon stands up, strikes a pose. “Thoughts?”

“Stylish.” Minho steps into him and pulls the trailing hems together at his waist, ties them in a bow. “I think it’s for women.”

“Oh, you want it?”

Minho makes a face at him. “Maybe I do,” he says. “Step back.” Hoon lets him take a picture, hears his phone _ping_ on the pillow. He shrugs out of the coat-thing and lays it flat on the dresser before he flops back onto the bed to look at it.

          **MINO 18:43** IMG-2149.jpg  
          **MINO 18:43** Yes? no?

“No,” Hoon says. He looks stupid—he’s still wearing his _other jacket_ , and it’s all scrunched. The arms are too short.

“It’s out of my hands, hyung,” Minho says, shrugging into a sweater that Hoon’s pretty sure his grandmother owns.

“They’re not awake,” Hoon says. “It’s the middle of the night at home.” He should be jetlagged, probably. He’s not yet.

“Ohhh,” Minho says, like he’s said something very wise. “That’s why I feel this way.”

On the plane, they talked about trying to weasel their way into a nighttime walk. They still have dinner with their managers tonight, though, and they’ve got a respectably early morning tomorrow. Hoon wants to see the lights along the river, but maybe today’s not the day.

“We come all the way to London and you’re ditching me,” Hoon says. “I should have known.” 

Minho makes a noise at him. “We can still walk around if you want,” he says, but Hoon’s been watching him all day, and he’s been sleepy since they left Seoul. 

Hoon stretches out on his stomach on the bed. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

“Isn’t that the show?”

“Day after.”

“Ah,” Minho says. Someone knocks on the door. Minho gets it as Hoon leans back for his phone.

Through the door, their manager says, “Did the clothes come?”

Hoon hears Minho pull it open. “They did,” he says through his scarf mask.

Their manager laughs. Hoon pushes Minho out of the room by the small of his back and keeps his arm looped around his waist all the way down to dinner.

 

When they get back, Hoon has their schedule for the next three days written in his Notes app and Minho’s hand in his back pocket. He’s getting mixed signals, a bit — Minho’s yawning but he’s clingy, and he was staring out the wide windows in the hotel restaurant in a way that made Hoon think he did want to go on a walk, if just to take pictures and get some air. He never brought it up, though, and they left their manager with the check and bumped shoulders while waiting for the elevator.

Hoon feels heavy with foreign food. Minho presses into his side at the door but breaks away when it’s opened, flops on top of the expensive clothes he left in a pile on his bed. Hoon winces a tiny bit and throws the key card and his phone onto his bed, then shoves aside Minho’s legs to pull them out from under him. He picks the hangers up from the floor and puts them back.

“Thank you,” comes Minho’s voice. “I got the verdict on your coat.”

“Huh,” Hoon says. He zips up the closet, feeling very responsible, and then clambers onto the bed on top of Minho. He drops onto Minho’s back, hooks his chin over his shoulder. Minho’s scrolling through the group chat.

“Yoon says no,” Minho says. “Hyung says ‘lol.’”

“How dare they,” Hoon says mildly. Minho laughs, squished under his chest.

“You can have the military jacket,” Minho says. “That’s your style.”

“Is it?” Hoon says. “I don’t think it is. Is it?”

Minho tries to shrug, can’t under Hoon’s weight. He drops his cheek forward onto the bed. “Well, you wanted it.”

Hoon lifts himself up on an elbow, lets Minho scoot onto his side. “Very generous of you.”

Minho smiles, and he’s sleepy, so it lingers. “Do you wanna have sex tomorrow morning?”

“Sure,” Hoon says, dropping his head into the crook of his arm.

“I’m really tired,” Minho says by way of explanation, “but I also want to fuck in this fancy hotel room.” He squeezes his eyes shut when Hoon reaches out and chucks under his chin.

“Sure,” Hoon says again. “We’ve gotta be down before nine, though.”

“That’s fine,” Minho says. “Do you want that weird face mask?”

Minho found it in the airport when they arrived, held them up for five minutes on the way to the baggage claim to buy it. It has some awful pun he could barely understand on the wrapper, but when he finally got it he laughed for a minute. It made Hoon giggle and their managers groan.

“Go ahead,” Hoon tells him. He gets up and plugs his phone in, kicks back the heavy duvet on his bed to lay on the sheets. Minho digs out the face mask from his messy bag, opens the package and sniffs it. He narrows his eyes at the letters on the outside.

“Hm,” Hoon says at him.

Minho stares at it for a long moment. Hoon tries not to look too amused.

“Oh, it’s _pear_ ,” Minho says eventually.

“You’re pear,” Hoon says.

“You’re just saying things now,” Minho says, going into the bathroom to put it on. Hoon leans back for his phone. He’s got notifications from the group chat.

          **Y8N 20:21** Playdate  
          **Y8N 20:21** IMG-2314.jpg  
          **Jinu 20:24** jhonny is being a bully…….  Minho-yah your fault  
          **Y8N 20:36** Haute is pouting  
          **Y8N 20:36** Send him a picture!!! He’s sad

Hoon texts back:

          **Hoony 20:43** APPA’S HERE!!!! DONT BE SAD!!!!!!  
          **Hoony 20:43** IMG-2949.jpg  
          **Hoony 20:44** Appas in europe buying you toys  
          **Hoony 20:44** Uncle yoon will take good care of you  
          **Hoony 20:45** Uncle jinu will protect you from big bully jhonny

“Jhonny is perfect!” Minho yells from the bathroom.

“What?” Hoon fakes. “I can’t hear you.” He thinks about Yoon pushing his phone into Haute’s face to show him the selfie he just sent, smiles to himself.

          **Hoony 20:45** You’re safe baby!!!!  
          **Hoony 20:45** I love you!!!

His phone pings.

          **MINO 20:45** Jinu-hyung i trusted you:(((((((  
          **Jinu 20:46** Shes being nice now  
          **Jinu 20:46** She tore up another mouse tho we should buy more  
          **MINO 20:45** please kiss her!!!

Jinwoo sends a picture. She’s sitting on top of the fridge looking imperial.

          **MINO 20:47**  

He comes out of the bathroom, his face covered in a pale green sheet. “I miss Jhonny,” he says with a pout.

“You’re such a good cat dad,” Hoon says.

Minho smiles at him. “Aw.” Hoon feels fuzzy. He texts the group chat.

          **Hoony 20:49** Have u eaten  
          **Hoony 20:49** Make sure to eat  
          **Hoony 20:50** I know it is hard in my absence but if i return home to skeletons i’ll be cross

Minho sprawls onto the bed, tucks the pillow under his chin and tries not to shift the mask. He makes faces until it pops away from the skin under his eyes, then presses it back down.

“I should have taken a shower first,” he says.

“Shower in the morning,” Hoon says. His phone pings.

          **Y8N 20:52** No we’re starving  
          **Y8N 20:52** Hyung has begun to eat the couch

Jinwoo sends a picture of their coffee table, covered with leftover takeout containers. The morning sun is streaming across it, making it look artistic instead of messy. It’s really early there.

“They’re fed,” Hoon tells Minho. “My work here is done.”

“What did they eat,” Minho says, his voice a bit mumbly. He’s playing a game, tilting his phone back and forth like he’s steering.

_What did u eat_ , Hoon texts.

          **Jinu 20:57** Thai

“Thai,” Hoon says.

“Yum,” Minho says.

He texts the group _Have fun at schedule!! Don’t die_ and leans back over the bed to plug his phone in.

“Do they have stuff today,” Minho mumbles.

“Dunno,” Hoon says. “Probably. I’m gonna shower.” He struggles into a sitting position and stretches, then pulls off his shirt. Minho wolf-whistles, but he’s still looking at the game. Hoon grabs the back of his ankle as he passes by, makes him yelp and kick at him before he escapes into the bathroom.

It’s remarkable, how they managed to make this room so fancy and yet so ugly. The lights hurt his eyes a bit. He grabs a fluffy towel and scowls at it, then drapes it over his head and takes off his shorts in the half-darkness. He trips a little, because he can’t see, but it’s fine.

He lifts the towel up enough to see and turns the shower on hot, then stands there feeling like a Russian grandmother until the big cold bathroom starts getting steamy. His shampoo is in his dop kit, right on the other side of the gaudy, maybe-fake granite countertop, but it feels so far away. He makes a decision to live with hotel shampoo hair and almost steps into the shower with his jeans on.

He doesn’t turn around to frown at himself in the mirror, because that would be dramatic. He frowns at the floor and throws his jeans at the wall, where they knock down a roll of toilet paper.

The shower’s way too hot. He can feel his pores protesting, but it feels good on his back, the hard knots that the airplane worked into his shoulderblades and his spine. A bath would feel good right now. Or a hot tub. A hotel like this has to have one. He makes a note to ask Minho, tomorrow night when he’s less tired.

Hoon’s still feeling respectably awake, which he’s proud of, but that doesn’t mean the jetlag isn’t there, doing laps in the back of his head until it’s decided he’s had enough fun and makes him crash in the middle of a photoshoot. It hides in the little things, like his clumsy fingers on the tiny shampoo and his hesitance about their early morning tomorrow, even though they’re in a gorgeous foreign city and they’ve got most of the day free and he’s with Minho.

He pushes his head under the water, wincing against the heat and trying not to think about skincare. Jetlag can’t faze him. They’re only here a few days. They’ll sleep a lot, and they’ll have sex in the morning, and then they’ll go kick some ass at fashion week. Jetlag who?

Hoon yawns and almost chokes on the shower water.

He spits gross soap bubbles at the wall. This is a proper time to be tired, so he’s still winning. He gets all the way out of the shower before collapsing dramatically over the counter, crushing the towel into a ball between his elbows and wondering how long it would take for Minho to come find him if he decided to die like this. Minho would probably just go to sleep.

He struggles upward and stares unhappily at the wet patch he’s left on the counter. He’s dripping all over the—pathetically thin, _again_ , what is this fake fancy room—bath mat.

“Jetlag,” he whispers, feeling betrayed. It takes two hundred years to towel off.

He emerges back into the bedroom in a puff of steam, humbled by the encroaching day. Minho gives him a sympathetic look — he’s yawning around his toothbrush.

“I am only going to sleep,” Hoon says, thickly and through toothpaste, “Because you are tired, and I am nice.”

“Eight hour time difference,” Minho says.

“No.”

Minho shakes his head. “Poor Hoony,” he says. “He died so young.”

“No,” Hoon whispers. He shuffles back into the bathroom and spits into the sink sadly.

“Bedtime!” Minho says brightly, the bed making a _whumph_ like he’s hit the pillow. Hoon washes his face, dragging it out so that when Minho comes into the bathroom he pushes Hoon to the side with his hip, saying, “Move over, hot stuff.” It satisfies him, but he feels a yawn coming on and has to escape before Minho can feel smug. It’s all he can do to pull on pajama pants and sit down, heavy, by his pillow.

Their room has a pretty good view of London, only partially blocked by clusters of cranes. Hoon stares over Minho’s bed at the dappled yellow and white in the distance. The sky is dark blue, not black — there’s too much light here.

“Can you wake me up?” comes Minho’s voice from the open bathroom door.

Hoon watches an airplane blink across the sky. “You’re the one who wants morning sex. You wake me up.”

Minho huffs. The switch in the bathroom makes a dull click as he turns off the lights. “But I asked so nicely.”

“You literally,” Hoon says, as the plane disappears, “literally did not even say please.”

He’s zoning out. The skyline is shiny, but the lines of it aren’t sharp. Minho drops heavily into his lap, and Hoon refocuses on him.

“Please,” Minho says, kisses him quickly and sweetly.

“You’re a cheater,” Hoon tells him.

“Thank you, hyung!” Minho says, bright as the night behind him. He bounces off Hoon’s lap and face-first into the other bed. “You’re the best. Love you.”

“Cheater,” Hoon says after him. There’s no bite to it. He sets an alarm and turns off the light.

 

Hoon’s phone wails like it’s dying. He periodically changes the alarm tone for days he’s anxious about the morning, reasoning that if it’s an unfamiliar sound he’ll wake up quicker, but now those bastards lurk in his clogged alarm screen and scare the shit out of him every time he sets it for 6:35 instead of 6:30. This morning it’s the weird, loud fake sci-fi noise that makes him feel like he’s going to be abducted. He turns it off with violence, then shoves it under the pillow for good measure.

His eyes feel heavy. It’s early. He blinks, but that’s too close to sleeping. He drags his eyes open and glares at the morning darkness.

It is—

Hoon checks his phone again.

Five-fifty AM. Gross. Why did he do that?

 A little voice at the back of his head says: _Because if Minho doesn’t nap after he comes he gets all grouchy, and you have shit to do today, and you’re a good friend._

 Hoon pouts at the ceiling. The things he does for love.

He looks over to the other bed, where Minho is on his side, one leg out of the comforter and face smushed into the pillow. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Hoon’s alarm at all. 

Hoon struggles into a sitting position, staring daggers into Minho’s back and thinking about how cool it would be if he could wake him up telepathically. Then he crawls out from the foot of the bed — going all the way around the side seems like an endeavor — and slumps his way into the bathroom. He closes the door most of the way, presses one hand over his eyes, and flicks on the light.

There are high-class new-renovation fluorescents spread in an arc above the bathroom mirror. They sear a red glow through Hoon’s palm. He forces himself to look at it, trying not to squeeze his eyes shut. He decides that any bathroom that doesn’t have a dimmer is antiquated and shameful, regardless of how expensive the renovations were.

He peeks out through his fingers at himself, sleep-tousled and pale, and tries to think if he’s ever been in a bathroom that had a dimmer. He can’t remember any. Sighing, he pulls his hand from his eyes and squints at his reflection.

This whole blonde look isn’t his thing, he thinks. He misses his eyebrows. He looks like an albino vampire. He feels like an albino vampire, this early in the morning. A bleary albino vampire wearing boxer shorts.

He reaches down and adjusts himself. He’s moderately hard, but it’s morning wood in the most traditional sense of the phrase, just his dick reminding him that it’s still attached. He kinda just wants to make out for a while and then order room service. Minho wants to fuck, though, so they’ll fuck. He’s bad at telling Minho no, and if Minho’s happy, he’s happy.

“Super sexy,” he tells his reflection. The albino vampire looks unconvinced.

He brushes his teeth, wrinkling his nose at the cinnamon toothpaste he always forgets Minho uses, and digs a bottle of lube out of the ugly pastel-striped wash bag that they’ve all taken to calling the “sex kit.” The broken zipper tag has been replaced by a Kumamon cell phone charm, and someone tried to draw something on the end in Sharpie and didn’t do a very good job. It takes Hoon ages to find a condom that’s not cotton candy-flavored — bought as a joke — or Triple XXX Magnum Gold — bought for a bet that Hoon denies ever participating in. In the process he finds one of Yoon’s headbands, a single hoop earring, a concealer stick, and a bar receipt from Vietnam.

It’s unambiguously awful. Hoon smiles and pats it before he leaves the bathroom.

The sun must be on its way to coming up, because even though Hoon’s eyes have to adjust he can still make out the ribbon tattoo on the back of Minho’s arm. His back’s moving regularly with his breath. Hoon tries to be quiet when he lays the condom and lube on the bedside table, then slides in under the comforter next to him.

Sometimes, if he kicks off the covers in his sleep, Minho gets so cold that Hoon flinches when he touches him, even if it’s just a hand on his waist to move him out of the way in the bathroom.Hoon’s the opposite — he has to work to get that cold, holding his hands against the outside of the van in winter, soaking the chill into his skin so he can stick his hands under Jinwoo’s shirt and make him yelp. The other side of the coin is that Minho gets sick quickly and efficiently, while Hoon stews in feverish misery for a week as the others drag him through schedule.

Now, though, he’s warm. The duvet is down — they really pulled out all the stops for this room. Hoon remembers Minho’s stupid accent from the day before: _Posh_.

He smiles. He touches Minho’s waist, then moves in to hold him properly.

Their shoulders line up identically. Hoon’s toes graze Minho’s heels. It took him a while to get used to fucking around with someone who’s the same size as him, but now he really likes it. Sometimes Minho touches him in ways that make him feel small—it’s a whole different high.

Their bodies bracket together so easily. If Hoon had slipped right out of bed and over to him, he probably would have just fallen back asleep. He feels a small burst of pride in his foresight.

“Minho-yah,” he whispers, running a hand along his stomach. “Hey hey hey.”

Minho makes a small sleep-noise, then startles. The back of his head bonks Hoon in the nose. 

“Ow,” Hoon says mournfully.

Minho says something incoherent into the pillow. His body starts to move, a centimeter at a time, gaining awareness of the world around it. Hoon taps his fingers on his stomach to encourage him.

“Mmmph,” Minho says. He rubs back with his ass experimentally.

“Oof,” Hoon says. “That’s me, sleepyhead.”

“Hello morning,” Minho says, his voice like rocks.

“Both of those were words,” Hoon says back. He’s still grazing his hand across Minho’s stomach, soft skin tight over dancer’s muscle and warm from the blankets.

“Hiiiii,” Minho says, his tongue curling lazily around the word. He sounds heavy, but he’s waking up. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Hoon says back, smiling. They’ve never really done this in the morning before. Minho kinda still smells like pear face mask, and he’s such a weight in Hoon’s arms already, even though they’re both laying down. Usually when they fuck he’s insistent and cheery, and if he’s in a really good mood he’ll play up the hyung thing and beg, but he’s not pliant unless he’s told to be. Now he’s molding himself back into Hoon’s form, aware—he must be—of Hoon’s hard-on, the placement of his body and the significance of it. He breathes in deeper, but makes no move to turn around and kiss or touch Hoon in return.

Hoon lifts himself up a bit, looks at Minho’s face. He’s still blinking slowly, but he makes a quiet shy scrunch of a face when Hoon kisses his eyebrow.

“Are you awake?” Hoon asks, settling back down and talking into Minho’s shoulderblade.

“Mmm,” comes Minho’s voice. “Yeah. Mmhm.”

“Cool,” Hoon says. “I’m gonna touch your dick.”

“Awesome,” Minho says.

Hoon grazes his fingers against the elastic band of Minho’s underwear, testing if it tickles. Minho isn’t biting — he’s just breathing deeply, the hint of a hum at the back of his throat letting Hoon know that he’s still participating. He lets his fingers drift down, over the fabric at first, trying to tell if he’s hard.

Minho pushes forward, just a bit, into the palm of Hoon’s hand. Hoon smirks.

“What were you dreaming about?” Hoon asks, spreading his hand flat and letting Minho rub against it, slow and lazy.

“Nothing interesting,” Minho mumbles. He adjusts Hoon’s wrist until he’s holding him further down, where he can feel the dusting of hair that escapes from the fabric of his boxers, and then wraps his arms around the pillow again.

“You were supposed to say something sexy,” Hoon tells him. He pulls him a bit closer, so when he rocks forward into Hoon’s hand he rocks back against him, too.

Minho hums. “Dreamt this hot guy climbed into my bed and woke me up,” he says in his morning drawl. “Said he was gonna touch my dick.”

Hoon grins into his shoulder. “Aw, cute.”

“He’s a romantic,” Minho says. “Great hands. Super hot.”

“Your voice, man,” Hoon says.

“He likes my voice,” Minho says, drawing out the last syllable. “I can tell, ‘cause I can feel his dick.”

“Eh, morning wood,” Hoon says. “Nothing to do with you.”

“Liar,” Minho breathes, folding his hand over Hoon’s and rocking into it with intent, moving his whole body with it, and Hoon can’t help but shakily exhale and mimic his movements. He closes his eyes. It’s unfair how hot Minho is, sometimes. He says things off-handedly and Hoon thinks about them for weeks.

He can’t tell Minho that, though. His head is big enough already. He strokes Minho through his boxers, feels vindicated when Minho sucks in a breath, wraps his fingers tight around Hoon’s wrist.

“I love your fuckin’ hands,” Minho says. “C’mon, touch me.”

“Say please,” Hoon says, but he’s already lifting his hand towards Minho’s face. He doesn’t have to see him to know that he’s grinning.

“Please,” he says, high and fake and breathy, and laughs a bit before Hoon feels him wrap his mouth around the tips of his fingers.

Hoon bites back a groan. Minho loves doing this. He gets showy, bobbing his head and making noises that get Hoon way too close to the edge. He’s _really_ good at it. Hoon feels his tongue push apart his fore- and middle finger and thinks about the other things his tongue can do, drops his forehead against Minho’s shoulderblade.

Minho audibly chuckles, even as his lips reach Hoon’s knuckles, as his shoulders arch when he opens his throat. Hoon curls his fingers, pulling them away from his gag reflex but pushing them into his tongue and his cheeks as he moans.

“Take off your pants,” Hoon says into his back, trying not to focus on the realization that sleepy morning Minho is into getting his mouth finger-fucked. It’s six AM. He’s pretending there’s dignity to this. 

Minho wriggles out of his boxers. When Hoon finally pulls his hand away he makes an exaggerated whine.

“You have a thing for that, you know,” Hoon says, a little out of breath.

Minho hums. “I like anything in my mouth,” he says, and then ruins the effect by cracking up. Hoon knees at him, which mostly serves to rub his dick more insistently against Minho’s ass. “Oh,” Minho stage-gasps, “Harder,” and starts laughing again.

“You’re such a shit,” Hoon breathes, running his wet fingers down Minho’s chest and then wrapping them around his dick.

“Remember when I sucked you off so good you almost broke your neck on the kitchen counter?”

“When will you stop gloating about that,” Hoon says painfully.

Minho rocks his hips back, liquid and deliberate. “When you stop staring at me when I drink through a straw.”

“You have the filthiest mouth,” Hoon says. “It is the _morning_.” Minho hums happily. He reaches back, pulls Hoon’s hip until Hoon throws a leg over him, rocks forward.

“You should come like that,” Minho says, holding Hoon against him, encouraging him to rut.

“Filthy,” Hoon says faintly. He hasn’t done that since he was a teenager, though he’s pretty sure Yoon’s into it when he’s too drunk to care about keeping up appearances. Maybe that’s what they do when they’re alone. “I thought you wanted me to fuck you?”

“Hm,” Minho murmurs. “Excellent point.”

“Dumbass,” Hoon says into his shoulder, rolling his hips into Minho’s ass once more before pulling away to retrieve the lube.

“I love you,” Minho says. He pushes his face into the pillow. “Cold. Come back.”

“Needy, too,” Hoon says. “Honestly, this guy.”

“Hoony,” Minho calls, though he’s whispering it, trying not to make too much noise. Hoon is resisting the urge to sit up and look at his stupid crinkling eyes. “My favorite hyung!”

“Ooh,” Hoon says, raising his eyebrows at Minho’s back. “Spicy. I won’t tell Jinu-hyung.”

Minho drags the pillow further into his arms. “He’s my favorite hyung when he’s fucking me, too.”

“What?” Hoon says. “Oh my god. Never. He has _not_.”

Minho sniggers. “You fell for it, though.”

Hoon says, “Minho, I almost died.”

Minho pushes himself up on an elbow, looks over his back at Hoon. “Legitimately what the fuck is taking so long.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re obnoxious?” Hoon says.

“Give me a kiss,” Minho says. Hoon leans over him and does, breathes in his stale morning breath, his soft lips and his smile.

“I love you too,” Hoon tells him. “Lay back down.”

He kisses Minho’s back, starting at the knob of his spine and then trailing down until he gets to his waist, the tiny fold of skin where he’s tilted up to lay on the pillow. He makes a quiet noise when Hoon pretends to bite it as he uncaps the lube, only giggles a bit when Hoon spills too much of it over his hand and swears into Minho’s shoulder. When Hoon presses in with one finger he makes a sweet, low sound.

“Tight,” Hoon mumbles. Minho murmurs assent, moves his hips in slow circles that Hoon follows with his wrist. He kisses Minho’s shoulder to warn him of the second but Minho barely reacts, just inhales deeply and continues his rhythm. With his eyes closed and his breathing regular, he seems like he could fall asleep.

Hoon bites his lip, then presses the heel of his hand into Minho’s tailbone, pushes his fingers up.

Minho’s eyes fly open. “Okay,” he says, his voice shaky. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Hoon murmurs. He does it again, watches as Minho’s nostrils flare, as his breath catches. He bends his neck forward, his shoulders hunching.

“That’s good,” he says lowly. “Keep doing that.”

A flush is blooming on his temple, his cheekbones, and Hoon knows he should be getting the condom on at this point but he’s curious. “Can you come like this?”

Minho exhales, a quick huff of breath. “Yeah. Easy. Real easy.”

“Okay,” Hoon says, “Okay, babe, let’s do that. My wrist hurts, though, can you lean over?”

“Yeah,” Minho breathes. He pushes his knee forward and leans into it, and Hoon lifts himself up, trying not to pull out too much. Minho’s visibly tense. Hoon would be worried he was hurting him if he wasn’t so clearly turned on. He kisses Minho’s ear, and Minho says, “Keep going.”

The way Minho reacts when Hoon moves his fingers is incredible. A shudder rolls up his whole body, and he twists his neck at the same time as his foot slips on the sheets below them. His mouth is hanging open.

“You look so good,” Hoon says thickly.

“More,” Minho tells him, and curls in on himself when he pushes in again, trying to get a rhythm. “Another, I want another, I want another—”

Hoon cusses under his breath. “Already?”

“Yeah,” Minho says. “Jesus, your hands.”

“Alright, alright,” Hoon says, wishing he could touch himself. He’s thankful he used so much lube.

When he presses a third finger in, Minho whines so loud he has to muffle it in the pillow.

“God,” Hoon whispers. He flexes his fingers and Minho twitches. “It really feels that good?”

Minho laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, yeah it does, how the fuck have you never tried?”

Hoon presses his lips together, rocks down into Minho’s hip with a bit of force. “I did once or twice. Got freaked out.”

“Oh,” Minho says on an exhale. “Yeah. I get that.”

Hoon pushes his forehead into Minho’s shoulder, tries to will away his blush. They’re literally, currently fucking — he can’t be getting self-conscious.

“It feels good, though,” Minho says. “Bend your fingers, bend your fingers— _fuck_ , yes.” He arches his back and Hoon has to lean closer in to follow him, grits his teeth when Minho’s hip brushes his dick. “It’s like—I don’t know what it’s like, oh my god, _please_ do that again.” When Hoon twists his wrist he rears off the bed.

“Fuck,” Hoon says, “Fuck, Minho-yah.”

Minho pushes the side of his face into the pillow, says, “You make me feel _so_ good, hyung.” His voice is thin. “If you wanted, I could make you feel good too, I promise—”

Hoon can’t respond. He drives his weight into Minho’s shoulder and tries to be steady and heavy, like he is when they’re fucking, doing his best not to let Minho realize he’s shaking.

“I’ll do this, but I’ll be slow, I’ll be gentle,” he says, his voice barely more than a gasp, breathier than Hoon’s used to hearing him and high. “I’ll show you—” he says, “Ah—I’ll show you, when we’re home, when we can make noise—”

Hoon shivers and ruts harder against his hip, desperate for any contact. His hand is so close to cramping but the noises Minho is making are too sweet and helpless to stop.

“Your voice, hyung, it breaks so easy, I love how it sounds—”

“Fuck,” Hoon breathes, and Minho shudders.

“Like that,” he says, “I wanna make you sound like that,” and pushes back against Hoon’s hand insistently.

“You are,” Hoon says, crooking his fingers upward, trying to make him squirm again, “You do, you do.”

Minho reaches back and grabs at him. He almost goes off-balance, and Minho’s holding himself away from the bed with his shoulder and his forehead, but he’s insistent. Hoon rocks against him in time with his fingers inside Minho, and it’s not enough, not by a long shot, but Minho is losing his breath, gasping and trying to stay upright, his grip on Hoon’s waist so hard it hurts.

“Come _on_ ,” Hoon gets out, his voice cracking, and—oh, god, Minho was right.

That’s what does it. Minho tenses everywhere, his shoulders down to his legs, trapped between Hoon’s, and clenches. Hoon bites his tongue and rides it out, trying to push Minho through it. He wants to touch himself so badly but he also wants to feel Minho go boneless, the way he always does after he comes, closed-eye satisfied and loose.

Minho’s hand drops from his hip. Hoon barely stops himself from falling on top of him. He tries to be gentle as he pulls his shaking fingers out, as Minho shudders out a breath.

He wipes his hand on the bedsheets, clinging to some semblance of cleanliness, and drops onto his side next to Minho. His back is heaving.

Hoon presses his forehead to Minho’s shoulderblade and cups his aching balls, then touches himself slowly, just wrapping his hand around his cock, trying to readjust. Minho rolls to the side, his eyes closed and his face peaceful. His thigh bumps Hoon’s knuckles.

Fondness and persistent, demanding arousal war for control of Hoon’s faculties. He drops his forehead against Minho’s.

Minho mumbles, “Ah, hyung,” and then yawns.

“I can’t believe you’re yawning,” Hoon says, his voice stretched and thin. Minho pushes his leg in closer.

“Mmm,” Minho says thickly, “It’s just ‘cause you’re so good to me. Here, c’mere.”

He gestures until Hoon makes a low noise and straddles him. He winces a bit—he must be sensitive. Hoon’s hand is loose around his dick, and he doesn’t settle his weight—he’s not gonna put too much pressure on Minho, not when he’s just come. He _really_ wants to get off, though.

“I’ve got you,” Minho says, his voice even rougher than when he woke up. “Don’t look at me like that. Your turn, yeah?” he says, and lifts his fingers to Hoon’s mouth.

Hoon squeezes his eyes shut. Minho traces his bottom lip with two fingers, and Hoon lets his mouth hang open, just a bit. He knows he’s going red.

“Good?” comes Minho’s voice, softer. “Hyung, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Hoon says lowly, and parts his lips wider. He touches the pad of Minho’s finger with the tip of his tongue, then bends forward, takes his fingers all the way in.

Minho breathes out. “Yeah, like that.”

He tastes like sweat and skin. He’s not moving his fingers like Hoon was, but he makes a noise of encouragement when Hoon hollows his cheeks. He’s got long fingers. They feel good like this, but Hoon thinks of what Minho promised earlier and shivers.

“I can’t believe I get to do this with you,” Minho says. There’s amazement in his voice underneath the exhaustion. “One more?”

Hoon nods, his mouth around Minho’s fingers making a wet sucking sound. His eyebrows are knotted together, and he can’t make himself open his eyes even though he knows it’s better if he’s looking, how much he loves it when the others do this for him and hold his gaze.

Minho pushes his ring finger into his mouth, and Hoon’s lips stretch, he can feel it, wet and sloppy. Minho spreads out his hand on Hoon’s leg and makes a warm, slow noise. Hoon feels small.

“Almost there,” Minho says. “Your mouth is so beautiful, Seunghoonie, all of you is.”

Hoon opens his eyes and looks down at Minho, at his wondering eyes and his sweet smile. He pulls off his fingers with a loud, slick noise and bends forward, trusting Minho to give him what he needs as he kisses him. It doesn’t take long at all. Minho’s hand is soft and wet, and he knows how to touch him.

Minho shushes him as he comes down, presses _wonderful Seunghoon_ into his mouth with his tongue.

“Lovely Minho,” Hoon tells him, when he has his breath back. “My Minho.” Minho sighs contently.

They fall apart for a few moments. The silence of the room rushes in to blanket them. When Hoon makes himself open his eyes, he sees fingers of sunlight stretching out from either side of the shades.

Minho is breathing deep and even, his fingers touching the spot of come on his chest like an afterthought. He looks inches away from sleep.

Hoon scoots in and manhandles him gently onto his side, tugs him close enough to kiss his neck.

“That was good,” Minho says. He sounds languid and dreamy. “Ah, you’re always good.”

“Aw, thanks,” Hoon says, trying to sound cheesy, but he feels good too. He loves holding Minho like this, warm and pliant and happy. “You too, you too.” He pushes his nose behind Minho’s ear and kisses his hairline until he wriggles, giggling a bit.

“We gotta get up, asshole,” he says, simultaneously grabbing Hoon’s wrist to keep him close and stretching out across the other half of the bed, digging his phone out from under the pillow. “Hang on.”

Hoon hums, looking at the back of Minho’s earrings, trying to sound innocent. Minho drops his phone and twists around in Hoon’s arms, bumping their noses together as he settles down. He’s trying to look serious, but he also still clearly wants to cuddle.

“Why’s it so early,” Minho says.

“I knew you’d want to go back to sleep, you big baby,” Hoon says. Minho narrows his eyes. “Plus, I want room service. They have waffles.”

“I want waffles,” Minho says.

Hoon raises his eyebrows. “You want to go back to sleep.”

“I do want to go back to sleep,” Minho says, yawning. “Save me a waffle.”

“Sure,” Hoon says. He kisses his nose. “Sweet dreams, cutie.” Minho smiles with his eyes closed. By the time Hoon struggles out of the warm bed, washes his hands nine times, and fumbles his way through ordering breakfast, he’s fast asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> set after [bruised prize fighters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15661134). [the burberry trip](https://www.vogue.com/article/winner-mino-hoony-at-burberry-spring-2018-fashion-show) was exactly a year ago!!! i love.... minhoon.
> 
> title is siken / [twitter](https://twitter.com/anahaedra)


End file.
